Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

“Sure, Dave.”

“That kind of man will tell you that he’s a friend of your father’s. That your father sent him to pick you up, maybe. But if he was a friend, you’d recognize him, right?”

“They hurt children?”

“Some of them do. Some of them are very bad people.”

I saw doubt and fear working into her face like a shadow. Her throat swallowed. I picked up her hand in mine again.

“Don’t be scared, little guy,” I said. “It’s the same thing I’ve told you before. We just have to be cautious sometimes. Miss Regan tells all the children that, doesn’t she? It’s no big deal.”

But it wasn’t working. Her eyes were locked on images in her memory that I could not touch or eradicate.

“Look, when I tell you not to stick your hand in the window fan, that doesn’t mean you should be afraid of the fan, does it?” I said.

“No.”

“If I tell you not to put your finger in Tripod’s mouth, that doesn’t mean you should be afraid of Tripod, does it?”

“No.” Her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.

“If Clarise won’t let Tex eat at the breakfast table, that doesn’t mean she’s afraid of horses, does it?”

She grinned up at me, her face squinting in the sunlight. I swung her on my arm under the maple trees, but there was a feeling in my chest like a chunk of angle iron.

At the house she poured a glass of milk and cut a piece of pie at the kitchen table for her afternoon snack, then washed out her lunch box and thermos and began straightening her room. I took the telephone into the bathroom so she could not hear me talking to Tess Regan.

“What’s the deal with this guy at the school ground?” I said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You sent a note home. Then Alafair told me about the guy with binoculars.”

“I was referring to your tone. Are you always this cross with people over the telephone?”

“It’s been an unusual day. Look, Miss Regan—Tess—what’s the deal?”

“At recess we use some of the eighth-graders as monitors for the lower grades. Jason, one of the monitors, said a man was parked in his car under the trees across the street. He said the man walked over to the fence and asked where Alafair Robicheaux was. He said he was a friend of her father’s, and he had a message for her. We teach all the children not to talk to people off the street, to direct all visitors to the principal’s office. Jason told him he should see Sister Louise inside the building. Then the man pointed to where the little ones were playing dodgeball and said, ‘Oh, there she is.’ Jason said, ‘Yeah, but you have to see Sister Louise.’ The man said he didn’t have time but he’d be back later. When he got back in the car, the children said, he looked at the school ground through a pair of binoculars.”

“What time was he there?”

“It must have been about eleven o’clock.”

Then it wasn’t Charlie Dodds, I thought. He was already inside my house by then.

“What kind of car?”

“The kids said it was yellow.”

“What did the guy look like? Did he have an accent?”

“Jason just said he was tall. I didn’t ask about an accent.”

“That’s all right. Was there anything unusual about him? A scar on his lip?”

“Children usually don’t remember those kinds of details about adults. In their world adults are simply ‘big people’ whom they either trust or dislike.”

“I’d like to talk to Jason.”